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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28286109">Raspberry</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon'>Caivallon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Hockey RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2014 World Juniors (Hockey RPF), Enemies to Lovers, First Love, M/M, Mpreg, New Year's Eve</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:27:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28286109</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caivallon/pseuds/Caivallon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mitch hears the duvet shift, pictures Dylan sitting more upright. It doesn't help, only makes it harder for him to inhale, makes his stomach drop, and for a moment, he's afraid he's going to throw up.<br/>"You okay?" Dylan is suddenly at his side. "You're really starting to worry me here."<br/>And then his palm is pressed against Mitch's forehead, cool and comforting even though Mitch can feel the warmth of his body. Mitch blinks. He clenches his eyes shut and tightens his grip on the backrest.<br/>"I'm pregnant."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mitch Marner/Dylan Strome</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Hockey Holidays 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Raspberry</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ologist/gifts">ologist</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello my dear,</p><p>I tried to go with the things you mentioned that you like, although I didn’t manage to exactly go with one of your prompts. It was the first thing that came to my mind and obviously it was inspiring and I had a lot of fun writing it. </p><p>So I hope you like it anyway. Just like everyone else. ♥</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"I'm gonna kill him." </p><p>Mitch laughs instinctively. Not because it's funny, but because he can't help it. Because it's a better option than crying. </p><p>"You can't, but I appreciate the thought."</p><p>"I can and I will. You just have to say it." </p><p>Mitch leans his head back against the door. Light is streaming in through the narrow gap underneath the door from the hallway, and he can see the shadow of Chris or Winston moving occasionally. It's gotten dark outside and he has no idea how much time has passed since he got to his parent’s house and fled to the bathroom, how long Chris has been sitting in front of the locked door and talking quietly to him. Maybe two hours, maybe three. The sun definitely hadn't set then. </p><p>"It's not his fault," he says after a while. His fingers are fumbling through the shaggy rug his mom must have put here after he moved out. It feels soft and nice when he curls his socked toes into it. It's too dark now without the lights on to distinguish its colour and he was too distracted before to pay attention to it. "Technically it was actually my fault."</p><p>"It<em> is</em> hisfault." Chris’s voice is only a low growl. He sounds so indignant that Mitch feels a surge of warmth spreading through his chest. His brother is the best, even when he's wrong. </p><p>"I mean… even in 'Sauga they must've taught him manners and decent behaviour. You just don't - I'm sorry - but you just don't stick it in if you don't use protection."</p><p>Mitch's cheeks are burning. He whispers, "I asked him to." </p><p>"Don't—please don't tell me stuff like that!" A whine, followed by Winston's nails scratching on the hardwood floors. "And like I said, <em>manners and decent behaviour.</em> I'm gonna drive up there and teach him." </p><p>When Mitch closes his eyes, images from his memories appear, good memories. There’s Dylan's dark eyes, even darker than usual, his pupils blown wide, and his messy curls, even messier than usual. The warmth of his breath ghosting over Mitch's collarbone and neck, the salty and sharp scent of him mixed with the mint of his chewing gum and the touch of his hands sliding over Mitch's arms and legs. His heart speeds up and he has to open his eyes, force himself to focus because the tingling in his lower body is embarrassing and downright inappropriate right now. </p><p>This is exactly what got him into this fucked up situation. </p><p>"You don't even know where he lives. Also, he's probably in Erie right now. Like I should still be in London."</p><p>"If you think I'm not capable of finding that asshole, you're very wrong." Chris huffs before he falls silent again. There's a low thud against the wood of the door and it's not hard for Mitch to picture his brother leaning against it on the other side, mirroring his position with Winston on his lap. </p><p>It's oddly comforting and calming, and the reason why he came here. Maybe if he doesn't move ever again and stays in the bathroom… maybe then he can pretend everything is still normal. </p><p>"You gonna come out soon, Mitchy?" Chris asks after a long pause. "It's a long drive to Erie and I should piss before that." </p><p>"No, wanna stay here. It's cozy. And you're not driving to Erie."</p><p>"You're right… I'll wait until Christmas Eve when he's in 'Sauga. Why waste gas on that asshole. But you have to come out. I ordered your favourite pizza from Slice of Fire, and it’s not going to fit under the door."</p><p>__</p><p>It took a small miracle and a lot of begging, but he's driving to Mississauga alone three days later. Not because he's really afraid that Chris would act on his threat and hurt Dylan, but he still thinks this is something he should do alone. </p><p>It's his fault, and he should be the one dealing with it. </p><p>It's the day before Christmas Eve and for once mother nature hasn't disappointed him because it started to snow a couple of hours ago; huge and soft flakes that are dancing to the ground and covering it with a white fluffy blanket. Beautiful, magical, when you're walking or sitting on the window sill of your bedroom and watching. Not so beautiful when you're on the 401 heading west with thousands of commuters that are all impatient to get home to their families. </p><p>Mitch has almost reached his exit when he realizes for the first time that he should've texted Dylan in advance to check if he's at home. But the Otters played their last game yesterday and like him, Dylan would leave in three days for the World Junior Challenge. He <em>has</em> to be home. </p><p>He bites his lip and takes the exit, turns up the volume of the radio even though it's playing a melancholic-dramatic song that his mom loves and that feels too real right now. </p><p>The street Dylan's family lives on is quiet with orange street lights illuminating the front yards and sidewalks. The houses are lit by warm light and decorated with stars and pine trees. It's not very late yet, but everything emanates such calmness and peacefulness that Mitch almost feels bad when his car destroys the immaculate blanket of snow covering the road.  </p><p>Strome's house is unsurprisingly the most decorated one, the front yard an empty battlefield with past evidence of snowball fights, and a driveway with three cars parked on it. Mitch can already hear music and people yelling while he climbs the steps to the porch.</p><p>Maybe this is a bad idea, a very bad idea. But it's too late to turn around, and if he's honest, the last couple of days weren't exactly what he would call fun either. At least after this, he would know what to do.</p><p>But when the door swings open and reveals a happily grinning Dylan, Mitch is pretty sure that it’s not just a bad idea; it’s a huge fucking mistake, even bigger than the one that led him here. Because Dylan’s smile melts faster than a snowball in the sauna and changes into a scowl. His eyebrows are raised and a deep line forms between them.  </p><p>“Marner,” he drawls, and Mitch’s knees start to shake; his heart beats so fast that he’s afraid it’s going to jump out of his chest or make him throw up.  </p><p>He’s going to get it broken, he’s sure.  </p><p>Dylan still hates him, has always hated him, and will always hate him.</p><p>He wants to turn around and leave—because what was he thinking?</p><p>
  <em>Marner. </em>
</p><p>(It had been<em> Mitch.</em>) </p><p>"I—" he has to stop because his voice sounds so off, so foreign. Has to start again. "Can you talk? There's something I have to tell you."</p><p>"You know about that little invention we call <em>phones</em>, right? They're pretty convenient because they allow you to talk to people without actually bothering them. You can even send little messages with those devices." Dylan looks way too smug about his own lame remark. It helps Mitch focus on something that isn't his nervousness, and for a second he begins to feel his usual annoyance towards Dylan. </p><p>"This isn't something you wanna hear on the phone, and it's definitely not something I wanna have text evidence of later." The first part is true, the second he doesn't really care about; he just hopes he puts enough sarcasm into it.</p><p>"I'm curious. Come in." </p><p>Slipping out of his sneakers, Mitch takes a curious look around the hallway. There are enough shoes and boots and jackets strewn across the little room that it resembles a Walmart store, but the light streaming in through the half-open door to the living area gives him the impression of a very homey house. Mitch can hear quiet music that is almost drowned by friendly bickering and laughter. </p><p>He feels like he’s interrupting or intruding, forcing Dylan to deal with him instead of spending time with his family and friends, because he's pretty sure this is a "Welcome back" party for Dylan. But he follows Dylan upstairs, trying to evade Dylan's impatient eye roll when he notices Mitch's glances. </p><p>The wall along the staircase leading upstairs is decorated with family pictures, most of them showing Dylan or his brothers in gear and skating, and they all have flushed cheeks and wide smiles. Mitch has always thought that they don't look anything alike, but now he can see the similarities between them. The same frown, the same awkward smile. </p><p>"Hey, Marner!" Dylan's voice rips him out of his thoughts and he straightens again; he feels caught and guilty because of that. "Staring costs extra."</p><p>"Sorry!" He's not really feeling sorry though because that little glimpse of Dylan Strome that he just got is precious and adorable, and so, so very different than the one he usually gets when they meet on the ice: softer and brighter, happier, and for a few seconds, Mitch remembers the only time he saw Dylan like this, open and vulnerable, eyes dark, but without a frown. His mouth was relaxed instead of this tight line that can only grin and not smile. </p><p>Dylan's room is a mess like Mitch expected. His clothes are everywhere, on the chair, the little couch and the floor; walls decorated with posters of bands and more photos. On the desk, his laptop is humming quietly and displaying the flying stars screensaver that reminds Mitch of their first computer at home, when he was five or six. He didn't even know that laptops still had that installed. </p><p>He laughs and gestures towards it. "Do you sit in front of it and pretend you're Captain Kirk?"</p><p>"Han Solo, please." Dylan flops down on the bed. A queen, with more cushions than Mitch has ever seen. But somehow he thinks Dylan wouldn't appreciate a "pillow princess" joke. </p><p>(It looks comfy.) </p><p>"Yeah, wouldn't have taken you for a Trekkie either." Mitch chuckles.</p><p>Dylan doesn't offer him a seat, maybe because the only spot is next to him on the unmade bed and—well, no, even though a shiver runs through his body thinking about Dylan's bed. The room is dimly lit by the small lamp on the nightstand and the screen, and he's almost glad because Dylan's sharp features appear softer. Mitch turns his head away, folds his arms around himself. He has to avert his eyes, can't stand watching, not when Dylan looks like this. </p><p>Dylan is half lying on the bed, his upper body supported by his elbows, his legs slightly spread, and his hair a beautiful mess. He’s clad in one of his million cozy hoodies and some jeans that are miraculously a little bit tighter than his usual ones. He looks inviting and approachable, relaxed but also tired. For a fleeting second, Dylan smiles at his comment and Mitch feels warmer. </p><p>But then the smile is gone and without it the cold returns. </p><p>Mitch can't do this, his stomach cramps when he just thinks about it. </p><p>"So… what's so important that you drove all to shabby 'Sauga? I mean, it probably wasn't to discuss movies with me."</p><p>"No, I—it's… I," he stops, has to take a couple of quick breaths that don't do anything against the tightness in his chest, it only makes him so dizzy that he has to reach for the backrest of the chair. </p><p>"Marner?" </p><p>Mitch hears the duvet shift, pictures Dylan sitting more upright. It doesn't help, only makes it harder for him to inhale, makes his stomach drop, and for a moment, he's afraid he's going to throw up. </p><p>"You okay?" Dylan is suddenly at his side. </p><p>"Mi—Marns, you're pale as fuck." Then his hand is on Mitch's shoulder. </p><p>"You're really starting to worry me here." And then his palm is pressed against Mitch's forehead, cool and comforting even though Mitch can feel the warmth of his body. Mitch blinks. He clenches his eyes shut and tightens his grip on the backrest. </p><p>"I'm pregnant." </p><p>__</p><p>That night Mitch sleeps in Dylan's bed. </p><p>After he threw up over the navy carpet because he couldn't make it to the bathroom in time, Dylan had shoved him into the shower and sat on the toilet lit to make sure that Mitch didn't pass out. Afterward, he handed him some pyjamas and a mug of peppermint tea. He also brought him a plate with Christmas cookies that Mitch ate while he watched Dylan scrub the carpet. </p><p>Whenever Mitch started to talk, he shushed him, softly but insistent, until Mitch finally gave up and slipped under the duvet. It was warm and smelled slightly of sweat and skin, but mostly of detergent. A smell that was so comforting that he couldn't help drifting away. </p><p>He didn't know how exhausted he had been, how much the last three days of insecurity and fear had been taking a toll on him since he took the pregnancy test. </p><p>When he wakes up the next morning, it's to the grey twilight of a typical Toronto winter morning. It's to his phone vibrating like crazy on the nightstand, and to Dylan's soft groan against his neck. </p><p>To Dylan's arm around him and his hand on his stomach. </p><p>To Dylan's morning wood pressed against his ass. </p><p>To Dylan and the memories of a morning like this just eight weeks ago. In a different bed, a different town. </p><p>Only this time Dylan doesn't jerk upright the moment realization kicks in and jumps out of bed like it has bed bugs. </p><p>This time he tightens his grip and pulls him closer while Mitch scrolls through the notifications on his phone. This time he shuffles even closer and slides his leg over Mitch's thigh. </p><p>"Your brother. He's been blowing up your phone since last night." Dylan yawns. "Please tell him you're okay… afraid the dude is on his way here to kill me."</p><p>Mitch chuckles, because that is exactly the content of Chris's texts. Maybe it's the fact that he’s had a full night's sleep or that it's the morning of Christmas Eve… but he's pretty sure that it's also because he's here—in Dylan's room, and Dylan called him <em>Mitch</em> last night instead of <em>Marner </em>before he climbed into bed with him. </p><p>They haven't talked about anything, yet. But—</p><p>Dylan didn't kick him out. He took care of him (and the puke) without any hesitation, without any questions. It's the best he's felt since eight weeks. </p><p>He sends Chris a short text and he’s already dozing off because he's got weeks of sleep to catch up on when Dylan speaks again. </p><p>"Who else knows?"</p><p>It takes him a couple of seconds to process the question before he shakes his head. "No one… needed to talk to you first. What—what did you tell your parents about why I'm here."</p><p>"Nothing… family problems."</p><p>Mitch snorts, and Dylan starts to chuckle, too, when he realizes his choice of words. It makes his chest quiver against Mitch's back and his heart rate pick up. "That's one way to put it, I guess."</p><p>"Yeah… I don't like lying to my mom." </p><p>"Same."</p><p>"So… you're telling her?"</p><p>And all of a sudden the nervousness and the sickness are back; the room feels colder, even though Dylan's hand is still around him, fingers brushing over the flat of his stomach… it could be a coincidence, it could be on purpose. Mitch isn't going to question it… it's the only source of warmth at the moment; that and the ghost of Dylan's breath on his back, soft and sweet and almost unreal. But not enough to keep reality away and the moment he has to make a decision. He doesn't want to think about it, even though it's one of the reasons he came here. </p><p>"I—I think I wanna know what I'm doing first… I mean ab—about it."</p><p>"Jesus, Marns… <em>Mitch</em>. That's not a decision you should take without talking to your parents first." </p><p>Mitch can't stand it any longer, and even though Dylan's touch is comforting, calming and grounding he turns around and allows the hand to drop between them now that there's suddenly a gap. Dylan looks at him with raised eyebrows, a determined and impatient expression on his face, and despite wearing a huge and snuggly hoodie, Mitch feels naked. Helpless. Too many thoughts and emotions are spinning inside of him. He can't grasp them, can't hold onto one of them. </p><p>Fear. Hope. Happiness. Despair. </p><p>Loneliness and anger, too. Envy. </p><p>About Dylan, whose parents would never desert him, would always support him. </p><p>That is the easiest to figure out—like a red thread in a fog of grey. And he goes after it like a guiding light. </p><p>"Easy for you to say! My parents aren't like yours. They're… they're not—"</p><p>"If you think they'll be happy and proud that their sixteen-year-old son got another boy pregnant then you're definitely wrong." Annoyance creeps into Dylan's features, and it's so familiar that it's almost calming. A spark of normality in the chaos that has become Mitch's life in the last three days. He had forgotten that this is Dylan's usual expression whenever they meet. </p><p>For a long moment, they just stare at each other, both defiant, both ready to fight. Then Dylan exhales slowly, and shakes his head. </p><p>"But you're right… they are pretty supportive, I guess? I mean… they won't—they would never let me down, would always try to help me." His voice is quiet, hesitant; just above a whisper, deeply moved and thankful. Mitch doesn't have to ask to know that Dylan has witnessed and overheard his father while watching one of Mitch's games. All of Toronto probably has. </p><p>Suddenly, there's a lump in his throat and his cheeks burn. Unable to stand Dylan's soft expression he averts his eyes and looks at the wrinkles in the bedsheet and the gap between them—the space Mitch has rolled away from. That space that always seems to be between them, even though they have crossed it twice now.</p><p>"You don't have to apologize for having great parents." </p><p>"And you don't have to be ashamed for sometimes having not so great parents." Dylan counters. He nudges his toe against Mitch's shin, like that could cheer him up. </p><p>It does, a tiny bit. What helps more are Dylan's fingertips under his chin when he gently tilts it upwards so that their gazes meet again. </p><p>"My parents won't be happy… But they'll help us—<em>you</em>. If you want. Whatever you decide. I'll help you, too. No matter what you want. Okay?" </p><p>Mitch nods. What else should he do? And he believes Dylan. <em>Has to</em>. The only other option is freaking out completely. So he clings to this small ray of hope, to Dylan's hand that keeps the dread and despair at bay. To Dylan's dark eyes that hold affection and tenderness, that enfold him like a warm blanket. </p><p>"What do <em>you</em> want?"</p><p>For a second Dylan just looks at him, surprised and then stunned, almost shocked before he shakes his head frantically, almost sad.</p><p>"Mitch… babe, that's—that's not for me to decide. To even say anything about it. It's your body… your hockey and your life. I—" he swallows, expression turning even sadder. "I can only apologize and offer help."</p><p>"Apologize?"</p><p>"For putting you in this place…"</p><p>"You didn't know! I—I mean I didn't even know that I… that I'm a carrier."</p><p>"Still, I should've used protection." </p><p>"Maybe I shouldn't have kissed you in the first place? Because that started it all." </p><p>Dylan's laugh is so unexpected that Mitch startles. Bright and wide and beautiful. So beautiful that he stops breathing and just stares at him—every other thought about the future and the present and the past forgotten. He just stares. Unable to move. </p><p>Until Dylan leans in and kisses him; crosses the distance between them and presses his lips to Mitch's mouth, morning breath be damned. There is no tongue, no franticness, no anger. But there is feeling, tenderness and patience and everything Mitch has seen on the photographs lining the wall of the stairs. </p><p>He can't do anything but answer, parting his lips and opening his mouth and kissing back. It starts slow, tentative; just lips brushing, tongues licking, patiently asking for permission or waiting for the other to stop. Until they both realize that neither of them wants to stop and it turns into something more urgent, more frantic and Dylan slides closer, is suddenly pressed against him and Mitch melts. </p><p>Because Dylan's arms are around him, and Dylan's fingertips slip into his hair and Dylan's scent fills his senses when Mitch buries it in his neck. </p><p>It's like no time has passed since that weekend in October. </p><p>It's like they've never been enemies. </p><p>It's like they belong together. </p><p>When they part, they’re both breathless. But Dylan is still touching him, still right there, still looking at him with that particular smile that Mitch has only seen once before—so full of affection that he has to close his eyes to not get used to it...</p><p>"Mitch…?"</p><p>That has he had to open them right away again because it would be too easy to pretend that Dylan really cares.</p><p>"It's all gonna be okay."</p><p>That he's not alone, no matter what he decides.</p><p>__</p><p>Mitch drives back home alone even though Dylan offered to accompany him. He was almost reluctant to let him go despite Mitch assuring him that he's good to drive, that he's not this delicate and breakable thing that is going to faint behind the steering wheel. </p><p>He's touched by the notion, but he managed it the night before when he didn't know, didn't even dare to predict Dylan's reaction when he was shivering with nervousness. Now he knows at least that he's not alone, that Dylan cares. </p><p>About him. </p><p>About their baby growing inside of him. </p><p>If Mitch allows them to keep growing inside of him. </p><p>__</p><p>It's the strangest Christmas he has ever had. Unreal. Because everything is like usual. But then again, nothing is. </p><p>He helps his mom with setting up the tree first, with baking cookies and decorating them with his cousins so that they can put them out for Santa before they send the younger ones to bed. </p><p>No one asked any questions about where he disappeared to the night before, even though his dad frowned at him when he returned around noon, but Chris quickly distracted him with other preparations around the house so they were all ready by the time their aunts and uncles arrived with their kids. </p><p>Mitch is so busy that he almost forgets that everything has changed. </p><p>That a baby is growing inside of him and that he has to make the most difficult decision of his life. </p><p>Dylan's constant texting over the holidays is one of the reasons he can't forget because that is something new. Something he never thought he'd wanted until this autumn when they met again as an Otter and a Knight. </p><p>The constant sickness and urge to throw up is another reason. But it’s more familiar than the texting because that’s been an issue he's been having since a couple of weeks ago in London. At least now he knows what's causing it instead of worrying about his body failing him. No one seems to notice that he doesn't eat a single cookie or that he excuses himself after breakfast on Christmas morning. </p><p>He calls his doctor the day after for an appointment while he scrolls through the pictures Dylan sent him; countless ones of the Strome siblings and cousins and relatives, most of them unknown except for Dylan's brothers, but all of them with the same dark brown eyes and distinctive brows. He doesn't care about them, only cares about the rare selfies that show Dylan smiling widely and happily, the short snap of Dylan stepping out to the backyard porch and into the snow that had started to fall again. </p><p>Every single new message notification makes Mitch's heart speed up, every time he opens it his fingers tremble a little. </p><p>It's new, them talking. </p><p>It's strange, them not trying to get under each other's skin. </p><p>The first day after Mitch told him, Mitch kind of expected Dylan to text him <em>haha, sorry, just kidding, Marner. I don't care what you do</em>.</p><p>But it doesn't happen. </p><p>Of course, their rivalry and their past aren’t over all of a sudden; Mitch isn't stupid enough to think that. They hooked up one night and Dylan sneaked out after Mitch had fallen asleep. No matter how good it had been, they probably won't repeat it. They won't become more just because Dylan's baby is growing inside him. But maybe… maybe they can become friends one day. </p><p>It's not what Mitch wants or wishes for. His heart is stupid like that, and kissing means something to him, that night still means something to him, even though it all started with them arguing, trying to get a rise out of each other like always. He felt so good that night, so alive and so right underneath Dylan. Like something clicked into place, like <em>they</em> clicked into place and fit perfectly together. </p><p>At night when he lies in bed, he thinks about them, about <em>that night</em>. With his right hand on his lower belly where their baby is the size of a raspberry now, he remembers how Dylan's skin felt, how his hair tickled against Mitch's neck and how his kisses tasted of Gatorade and peanut butter Clif bars. </p><p>__</p><p>"You're—what are you doing here, Marner?" </p><p>Mitch flinches for a second but then pulls himself together. They aren't alone, and no matter what has changed over the last week, Dylan's words made it clear to him that no one is supposed to know about it. </p><p>So he gives a shrug and grins before he replies. "Playing hockey, I mean that's why we're here, aren't we? Or at least that's why I'm here. Not sure if you'll even get ice time with the way you've been playing lately, Stromer."</p><p>It gets him a couple of laughs from the guys around them. </p><p>Not from Dylan though, who only stares at him with a frown that could freeze lakes if it weren't for the fire in his eyes. </p><p>"You gotta—" And then he's right up at Mitch and yanks at his arm so abruptly that Mitch has just enough time to drop his huge bag before he's dragged away from the gate where their teammates have gathered.</p><p>"Don't fight guys, save that for the ice."</p><p>Then they're around the corner behind a coffee stand and out of sight. </p><p>"You gotta be kidding?! You can't play!"</p><p>"Ouch." Mitch grabs Dylan's wrist, to tell him that he should let go. For a single second, Dylan looks slightly guilty and Mitch decides to milk it a bit more. It did hurt, but not that much. "That really hurt."</p><p>"Sorry, I'm… yeah I'm sorry, but Mitch, what do you think you're doing? You can't play! You're—you're <em>pregnant</em>." The last part he only hisses. It's not like someone could overhear them with all the ruckus around them.</p><p>"Yeah, thanks, I know." He's appeased by the apology but not enough to stop frowning up at Dylan. </p><p>"So why are you here?!"</p><p>"Like I said, to play hockey. I asked the doctor and she said it's fine. I'm only ten weeks in. Until I'm out of the first trimester it's not even sure if... there's still a lot that could go wrong. And maybe—maybe that would be better." </p><p>"Better? You mean you don’t want—" </p><p>Dylan's reaction can only be described as dismay. Eyes wide and mouth open he stares at Mitch. There's panic in his expression, and something that Mitch can't decipher… maybe disgust, maybe sadness, maybe heartbreak. Every colour has faded from his face and his usual bags under his eyes stand out even more. </p><p>He almost looks like a vampire; a very sleepy and shocked vampire. </p><p>"You've already decided to…"</p><p>(He can't even name it.)</p><p>"What happened to <em>my body, my hockey, my life</em>?" Mitch challenges because suddenly Dylan's answer is important. More important than almost anything else. </p><p>"I—yeah, I mean, I will support and help you. I promised, and I don't break my promises… I just thought…"</p><p>"Relax. I haven't decided anything yet, okay?" </p><p>"Thank fuck," Dylan exhales and the relief is so blatant on his face that Mitch feels his heart ache for him, and for himself because seeing Dylan care so much—that's something. That is exactly what he didn't try to hope for and still knows that he did. </p><p>"Sorry, I—just… it's just such a big thing and I thought…"</p><p>"I should keep them?"</p><p>"No." He shakes his head again. "I'd understand it, but it'd be so <em>not</em> you."</p><p>"Wow, that's pretty presumptuous." Mitch folds his arms in front of his chest. He's starting to feel like throwing up again, and even though it's still quite early in the day he's pretty sure it's not morning sickness. His stomach is in turmoil and his mind is spinning from all the different thoughts and emotions that are fighting inside of him. "Just because I let you stick it in doesn't mean you know anything about me, Stromer." </p><p>"Well, I know you're an annoying and arrogant prick."</p><p>"Thanks, right back at you."</p><p>Dylan continues without acknowledging Mitch's comment. "But you sent me a text on Christmas morning about how they're the size of a raspberry and that it's possible to do some weird Chinese test to find out the gender already." </p><p>"Which is nowhere near accurate, and I haven't actually done." </p><p>"You sent me pics of countless cousins and told me how much you enjoy being around them."</p><p>"You did the same!"</p><p>"You're a family person, Mitch Marner." </p><p>"Okay… so maybe you know a couple of things about me, but that still doesn't mean that I'm ready to have a family on my own." Mitch can hear his voice getting higher at the end of the sentence and feels his throat clenching. He has trouble breathing—all the anxiety and insecurity, the whirlwind of emotions he lived through the last couple of days threaten to overwhelm him again. </p><p>"I know, I know," Dylan raises his hands in surrender and to placate him, and Mitch tries to calm himself a little bit. It works only until Dylan takes a step towards him and places his hands softly around Mitch's face. Suddenly he's right there, almost pressed against him—so much closer than Mitch has expected him to be ever again and for a second he feels caught, trapped… until his body - the traitor - realizes that Dylan is strong and warm. That Dylan is caring and that this is everything it wants. </p><p>He'd been so good… perfectly in control and able to think rationally, to act as if he's still the same whenever he'd been with his family. Even when he was alone he managed to focus on the things he needed to do. </p><p>Why does he have to start to freak out now? </p><p>Although they are mostly hidden by the coffee stand, anyone could see. They are in public. </p><p>But Dylan doesn't seem to care and Mitch almost stops as well. His eyes flutter close as his hands slide around Dylan’s waist and dig into the back of his sweater. </p><p>"Shh… babe, it's going to be okay, okay?" A chuckle right next to Mitch's ear and Dylan's chest quivers against his own. "We're gonna board this plane and then we play some hockey, kick some ass… you think that'll help?"</p><p>"Ye—yeah." </p><p>"Good. So we're gonna focus on that first and then we do the rest?" Dylan tightens his grip for a moment and then releases him softly. Mitch misses his embrace instantly and wishes he could just pull him back in. But then he hears another group of guys approaching and he knows that it's probably the rest of the team. Mitch can identify TK's and Crouser's voices among them and also Blacker's scratchy laughter. </p><p>Dylan adjusts his hat, messing up his hair in the process and Mitch is torn between wanting Dylan's body pressed against him again and the urge to adjust his hat for him, so he only manages a shrug. But because Dylan is Dylan he ruins even the remnant of their tender moment, extinguishes the warmth Mitch has felt just before with another stupid remark. </p><p>"And you're really cleared to play? Don't want to hear any excuses later when I completely outshine you." </p><p>Sometimes Dylan makes it really easy to hate him. Even when seconds ago he made it so easy to fall for him. </p><p>"Yeah, sorry that you won't win best scorer of the team this time." </p><p>__</p><p>They board the plane and land in Halifax, and then they play some hockey. Like Dylan said. </p><p>They kick ass. Just like Dylan said. </p><p>But through all this, they barely talk. At least not in person. They hang out with their friends, in different groups and in different hotel rooms. </p><p>It's like Mitch has figured before… their rivalry isn't dead just because they slept together and kissed like Mitch hasn't been kissed before. It hasn’t disappeared because they fucked in the small bedroom of Mitch's billet family. Not even when the actual proof of that encounter is slowly growing inside of him and makes him sick in the mornings. </p><p>Maybe years of animosity and annoying each other can't be wiped out. Maybe it's too easy to fall back into old habits. Maybe it's just to mislead the team. </p><p>Maybe it's just how they are. </p><p>Mitch doesn't know. He only knows that he falls back into the role of Dylan's enemy even though they are now on the same team, and Mitch mocks his breakfast habits and the bags under his eyes. Laughs about his ever messy hair and sloppy clothes. Claps sarcastically when he misses a pass in practice and trips over his own skates. </p><p>A secret part of him flinches inwardly whenever his mouth opens—the part that remembers pictures on his phone of Dylan's attempt with making pancakes, that wants to brush his thumbs over the dark circles under Dylan's brown eyes. The part that wants to walk up to him and feel those curls between his fingers and slip his hands under the baggy shirts. That part that wants to wrap his arms around Dylan and kiss the frustrated frown from his face after a bad practice. </p><p>He doesn't know if Dylan feels the same—can't read him or tell if his heart is in it when he laughs brightly about Mitch spilling ketchup all over his shirt or whispers with Crouser the second Mitch enters a room, or when he catcalls after Mitch complimented Coach Krets about his tie (it was a really nice tie!), or when he turns around and calls for more booze on New Year’s Eve the second he sees Mitch. </p><p>But it hurts. It hurts so much that he has to step out onto the balcony and into the cold night to prevent anyone from seeing him curling over and wiping his hands over his eyes even though he doesn't cry. At least not because of stupid Stromer—it's all Raspberry's fault. It’s only hormones. The doctor said that this could happen and that he would get used to it. </p><p>It still takes him a couple of moments until he manages to get his breath back under control. He focuses on the sharp bite of icy air in his nose and lungs, on the white cloud vanishing into the darkness after every exhale. Fumbles to get his phone out of his back pocket and opens it so that he can read the messages again that Dylan sent him over the last three days. </p><p>Because that's what they did. </p><p>They texted. </p><p>Like they did over Christmas. Lame jokes about their teammates, mild complaints about their overbearing parents and siblings, shared insights of the opponents in the tournament. Pictures of puppies playing in the snow, some weird local dishes they had to try (and that made Mitch almost throw up), and the sunrise over the ocean. </p><p>If Mitch didn't have visual proof on his phone about this other side of Dylan, he would think that he made it all up. But it's there, mocking him more than Dylan's words and actions ever could. </p><p>His head is spinning. </p><p>From the hotel room he can hear laughter and music, can hear Cooler cracking up about something, followed by a couple of others cheering him on to <em>drink up, drink up</em>… and he knows he has to get back inside and act normal while at the same time try to not let them find out that he's stone-cold sober. </p><p>But just when he's finally ready to face them all again, the sliding door opens behind him. For ten seconds, the noise gets louder, shriller until it's muted once more and a hand lands on his shoulder. </p><p>"You okay?" </p><p><em>Of course</em>. Of course, it's Dylan because Mitch has no luck. Because he's the last person Mitch wants to see right now and also the only one. </p><p>"Yeah, I'm great. What makes you think I'm not?"</p><p>"The fact that you're hiding here in the cold instead of joining the party?"</p><p>"Don't want to ruin the night for you… seemed like you can only stand my presence when you're drunk." He smiles grimly; even to himself, he sounds bitter. Dylan is standing behind him, not close enough to touch, but close enough for Mitch to hear the little inhale before it's carried away by the freezing wind. They aren't visible from the hotel room, but he doesn't dare to turn around. Doesn't want to give Dylan the satisfaction of seeing the hurt. Or risk another little breakdown that forces Dylan to comfort him again—like three days ago at the airport. </p><p>Mitch can still feel his hands around his face and he knows he would break if Dylan touched him now—if Dylan pitied him. </p><p>So he stares into the darkness and waits for the sliding door to open and for Dylan to leave. Waits and waits and waits. </p><p>It doesn't come. </p><p>Instead, he can hear clothes shift and then he can feel Dylan's body pressed against his back. His breath ghosts over the shell of his ear and his neck while he whispers. </p><p>"Meet me outside the hotel, at midnight. Gonna kiss you for the New Year."</p><p>Mitch swears his heart stops for a few beats and when it's finally working again, when he's able to turn around and ask all the questions on his mind he only sees Dylan disappearing in the room again, leaving him behind on the balcony, in the cold of Halifax three hours before midnight. </p><p>__</p><p>He doesn't want to go. Told himself he wouldn't, even though he probably knew right from the moment Dylan whispered the words into his ear, that he would sneak out of the room their teammates are partying in to grab his coat and take the stairs so that no one could catch and stop him. </p><p>Blood is rushing in his veins and he feels drunk even though he didn't have one drop of alcohol. It's loud, almost louder than the voice of reason that tells him that Dylan was joking. He wouldn't be there and waiting for Mitch. It was just a trick. Or worse. It was a trap. Meant to make Mitch look like a fool in front of their teammates. The perfect payback, the ultimate embarrassment. </p><p>But even louder than that voice is the hope, the ridiculous hope for that kiss, another kiss from Dylan. For closeness and warmth, intimacy and heat, for something that Mitch hasn't been able to forget since their night together in October.</p><p>He shoves his hands into the pockets of his coat, the right resting on his lower belly, the place where he would soon be starting to show. It's crazy, and just thinking about it makes his stomach clench and nauseous, makes his limbs feel weak and jittery. Everything would change, everyone would be disappointed; his parents, his coach… his team. Just like he disappointed himself. No matter what he decides… either all his dreams of a future in the NHL would shatter, or his heart would. </p><p>The entrance hall of the hotel is surprisingly empty, but he can hear music and laughter from the bar and the restaurant. A pair of waiters are hurrying past him with huge trays of champagne flutes and the hostess is typing on her computer while speaking softly into the phone. No one pays attention to him as he crosses the hall and sneaks out. </p><p>If Dylan thought that this was a good meeting point… well, he was wrong. Because there's already a line of taxis waiting for the guests who would leave right after midnight; the drivers either sitting in their car or leaning against it and smoking. Mitch walks away from the entrance. The cold immediately cuts into his cheeks, and he really wishes for a scarf even though he wouldn't be here for long. </p><p>It's ten minutes to midnight.</p><p>It's ten minutes to midnight and no Dylan to be seen. </p><p>It's ten minutes to midnight and Mitch is waiting for a kiss he's never going to get. A kiss he told himself he wouldn't get. A kiss he's still foolishly hoping for. </p><p>And now he bites his lips to not cry, digs his nails into his palms to brace himself for the moment his teammates and Dylan's buddies would show up to make fun of him… out here in the freezing Halifax night, all alone at the brink of the New Year - the year that would ruin his career - dreaming about a boy that is far too good for him. </p><p>He doesn't check the clock but the noise of people streaming out onto the streets tells him it's really close to midnight. Laughter and happy screams echo through the darkness, followed by the sound of footsteps and the occasional firework that was set off early. Someone must have opened a window in the restaurant because he can hear the first tunes of "Auld Lang Syne". It's not the typical jazzy version that he listened to a couple of times, but a slower one, with a very sad female voice, accompanied by a piano. </p><p>Beautiful. And heartbreaking.</p><p>Mitch isn't a sentimental guy, he’s never allowed himself to dwell on things that happened in the past or things he can't change. Only losers do that, he has been told. </p><p>But standing alone in the dark right now, thinking of everything that happened in the past year while wishing for something that would never happen… he has to bite down harder on his lip and cup his still very flat stomach. He shuts his eyes so that he can pretend his vision doesn't get all blurry with tears. </p><p>The first explosion of fireworks and the clock striking midnight must have drowned everything else around him because he flinches in surprise when suddenly two arms embrace him from behind and a tall body presses against him and pulls him close, closer; close enough for hot lips sliding over the hinge of his jaw and then the shell of his ear. </p><p>"Fuck—Mitch…I'm so sorry! I really wanted to be here earlier, but—Blacker forced me to drink that horrible piss and I—" Dylan's breath is tickling, tingling down Mitch's back like rain; melting his spine so that he shivers in Dylan's arms and he uses the last inch of control to not crumble against him. He wants to turn around, wants to gather the kiss he was promised, but he's still not ready, still not sure if there aren't others who followed Dylan to mock him. </p><p>So he just stands there, stiff, only hugging himself, while he lets himself be hugged. </p><p>"Mitch… <em>Mitchy</em>, I—" </p><p>And then Dylan's cold nose is brushing over his hairline, his temples… Mitch can smell the alcohol in his breath, the spicy freshness of his cologne as if… as if Dylan put effort into his appearance. </p><p>(For Mitch.)</p><p>"Turn around, <em>please</em>." </p><p>"I can't." </p><p>"Wanna kiss you. Wanna kiss you so bad." He whispers the words right into Mitch's ear, so soft, so apologetic. "Been thinking about it all night. Been thinking about it since the first time… since this season started."</p><p>(He's lying.)</p><p>(He can't be saying the truth.)</p><p>But before Mitch can voice his thoughts, Dylan releases him, only for a short moment because then he's right in front of him. His hands are grabbing Mitch's shoulders and supporting him, and his face is close and his eyes dark. </p><p>Dylan is dressed better for the freezing night, wearing a puffy jacket like Mitch, but also a thick scarf draped around his neck and a wool toque that can't contain the mess of his curls. He looks cozy and warm, solid and strong enough for Mitch to lean against. </p><p>He knows he should check for a trap, should consider their surroundings, but when Dylan closes the gap between them… he stops thinking and returns the kiss. </p><p>It's better than the first one in the hallway leading to the locker rooms in London when Mitch only wanted to make Dylan shut up. Better than the one on the porch of Mitch's billet home when Dylan pushed him against the front door. And better than the one in Mitch's bed with their hands and legs entangled and their naked bodies sliding against each other. </p><p>Mitch hasn't had many kisses to compare. He’s only kissed two girls at school and one of his teammates when they were both drunk and curious. But this is definitely the best kiss he's ever had so far. Maybe because he's already familiar with the way Dylan's mouth slowly and almost hesitantly moves against his, teasing him without tongue, without any pressure and haste, just nipping as if he's tasting Mitch's lips before softly sucking on the bottom one. The first time Mitch had been surprised about the lack of urgency, about the subtleness, until he remembered Dylan's patience on the ice when it comes to setting up a play, the obsession with hockey stats. Dylan may lack his own creativity and magic, but he's making up for that with cleverness, determination, and thoroughness. At least Mitch hopes it's that and not the fact that Dylan just had a lot of chances to practice his kissing technique. </p><p>The notion alone sits wrong with him, annoys him so much that he angles his head and cups Dylan's face so that he can deepen the kiss and slip him some tongue. It causes Dylan to chuckle, a sensation that vibrates in his chest and tickles his fingertips until Dylan's tongue brushes against his and every annoyance evaporates into thin air and all Mitch wants is for this moment to last long enough that he can take it home with him, to memorize the taste - raspberry vodka and mint gum - and the feeling of Dylan's fingers combing through Mitch's hair.</p><p>The feeling of Dylan slowly withdrawing only to come right back without taking the breath he intended to—as if kissing Mitch is more important. </p><p>The feeling of Dylan smiling against his lips, of his nose brushing against Mitch's when they finally part—as if he still needs to touch him. </p><p>"God… Mitchy," he whispers. </p><p>It's after midnight by now, but fireworks are still exploding everywhere, lighting up the night sky, and people are yelling and cheering on the street and from the terrace of the hotel. For a second Mitch thinks he can even hear some of their teammates but it's ridiculous because their rooms are on the back of the building and they are probably too drunk to care about fireworks. </p><p>But then Dylan places another short peck onto the tip of his nose and Mitch forgets about everything else again. </p><p>"Happy New Year." </p><p>"You too." </p><p>"Did you make a wish?" </p><p>"You wish upon a shooting star, not on fireworks. New Years is for resolutions." Mitch corrects him. "So, no, I didn't make a wish. You?" </p><p>"Of course. But don't even ask, I'm not telling you." </p><p>"But I wanna know." </p><p>"Pouting isn't a good look on you." He laughs, hands around Mitch's face, thumbs softly caressing his cheeks, and Mitch realizes that Dylan hasn't turned his eyes away from him for even one second, not even when someone shattered a glass nearby. He tries to not be giddy about this knowledge, or the intensity of Dylan's gaze. He feels tipsy, bold—bold enough to go onto his tiptoes and bury his face in the crook of Dylan's neck where he inhales the distinctive scent of skin, hair and that cologne Dylan put on and that Mitch vaguely thinks he should make fun of. Only that he can't because it's more important to press a kiss on the hinge of Dylan's jaw and then nip on his earlobe before he softly teases. </p><p>"But it's working for you?" </p><p>"Yeah… you know damn well that it is." </p><p>Every noise around them disappears again, fades into the background, and the only thing that Mitch hears and senses is the throb of Dylan's heartbeat fluttering against the tender skin of Mitch's lips. </p><p>"Tell me, please," Mitch pleads.</p><p>Every single one of his actions causes a beautiful reaction in Dylan and he can't remember ever feeling that good, that powerful and strong; victorious even. Like he made a perfect play, an impossible pass, and scored one of those magic goals. </p><p>(Just better.) </p><p>"I wished for us to play together, and I wished for you to be happy with whatever happens." </p><p>If he said <em>I wished for a medal in this tournament</em> or <em>I wished to play in the NHL</em>… it would have been so much easier to believe. But Dylan's words are hanging between them and the sincerity and tenderness in them make Mitch's stomach flutter and warms him to the core. It makes him want to believe it. At least the second part.</p><p>Because no matter what, he can't believe that Dylan would want him on the same line. Dylan can't stand him; he thinks he's a nuisance, a competitor. <em>Mitch</em> can't stand him, his remarks and his stupid cockiness whenever he manages to score against him and his team. They would never work out; their playing style is too different, almost the opposite, and their personalities are too similar. </p><p>So Mitch turns his head and breaks the connection; he doesn't know what to reply. Dylan's gaze is too hard to read for him, just like his touches and his kisses. He bites his lower lip—the one that Dylan just nibbled on. (It still tastes of him.) </p><p>"Why did you want to meet me?" </p><p>He has to know. </p><p>"Because I wanted… needed to see you smile at me again." </p><p>Even though he knew the answer would leave him more confused than ever. </p><p>__</p><p>Everybody looks and probably feels like shit the next morning. </p><p>They had curfew last night and despite most of them sticking to it they all look like they didn't sleep at all as they drag their feet to breakfast and practice. No one speaks and Mitch spots Crouser and TK taking a couple of Advil before their coffee, eyes droopy and red-rimmed. </p><p>To Mitch’s surprise Dylan doesn't look as bad as he expected; just the usual bags under his eyes and creases from his pillow on his cheeks. He's wearing clothes that are so shabby and wrinkled that Mitch isn't sure if he bothered to change out of his pyjamas. </p><p>Considering the amount he must have drunk last night, he wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. Not that Mitch knows how drunk Dylan was… but the stuff he said—he wouldn't have said that if he weren't drunk. </p><p>Mitch wasn't drunk, and yet he feels hungover. </p><p>He slept like hell and woke up so often that he would barely call it sleep; he mostly laid in the dark, restless and covered with cold sweat, fighting nausea and the thoughts raging through his mind. Pictures of previous games, of the tactics the coaches talked about the evening before… but those always got replaced by pictures of Dylan; standing in front of him outside and wrapping his scarf around Mitch's neck. Smiling at him, touching him, holding his hand all the way back to Mitch's room until they encountered a couple of teammates on their floor. Jokes of his friends, speeches of their coaches… they all turned into the words Dylan whispered into his ears. The sound of his laugh, of their lips parting after their kiss, of the sigh when he let go of Mitch's hand. And everything ended with the knowledge that there was their baby growing inside of him, still so small, so vulnerable. A proof of the night they spent together, of feelings that weren't only rivalry and annoyance. Of something more. </p><p>Bigger than them. </p><p>It made him dizzy even though he was lying on his back, rolling around to find a better position to sleep in without waking his roommate. </p><p>Dylan barely looks at him the next morning; not during breakfast nor during practice. Or if he does, Mitch doesn't catch his gaze. </p><p>It’s not until they are three goals behind after the second period that Coach announces that he has to play on the same line as Dylan. </p><p>It's maybe an exaggeration and a creation of his mind, but Mitch thinks the whole locker room falls silent at those words. Then there are even a few chuckles and a mumbled <em>good joke, Coach </em>that dies right away when Krets turns around and stares at the person who spoke. Mitch doesn't know who it was, doesn't even care. </p><p>He only cares about Dylan's expression; wide-eyed and pale, towel dropped from his hands. </p><p>(So it was all a lie last night.)</p><p>But just when Mitch wants to shrug and ask Coach Krets if he really thinks that's a smart idea, the corner of Dylan's mouth twitches. And then he's looking up and meeting Mitch's gaze; there’s challenge and determination in them, along with something Mitch can't read. </p><p>Mischief. Happiness. Tenderness. (Maybe.) </p><p>It's nothing that Mitch expected. </p><p>(It's everything Mitch hoped for.)</p><p>"Sure, let’s go." </p><p>Mitch can only nod abruptly. He's speechless—too thrilled, hyped in a way he hasn't felt in a long time about a game. The frustration and the glumness from the previous two periods are gone. It's ridiculous and probably delusional because they have never played together. No one knows if it will work. No one knows if it won't be the gigantic clusterfuck that Mitch still thought it would be yesterday. </p><p>But Dylan looks giddy; almost smug in a way Mitch has barely seen him before. As if he knows something that nobody else knows. And when he pulls Mitch in for a quick chest bump before they hit the ice, he brushes his hand over Mitch's belly. It could be a coincidence, only that the gesture and his expression are too soft, the little flick against his chin and nose that follows after is too fond. </p><p>'<em>Let’s go</em>.'</p><p>He exudes such confidence in himself and in Mitch - in <em>them</em> - that Mitch almost thinks he's flying when he steps onto the rink. </p><p>And flying he does. Because it doesn't even take a minute for them to score after Dylan stole the puck from one of the Russians in a sneaky move that makes Mitch grin. The next thing he knows, the puck is on Hams’ stick and then it hits his tape because he's wide open and the big defenseman in front of him is too easy to deke around. </p><p>It's almost as if they’ve always played together. Their passes are finding each other even when they are on different sides of the rink like Dylan just knows where he has to be or where Mitch will be. Mitch's two other goals aren't assisted by Dylan, and yet it's always Dylan whose eyes he finds before their teammates crash into him for the celly. It's always Dylan who's the last one to let go of him after he scored his hattrick, with a soft smile and then a big triumphant grin, eyes bright and so proud. </p><p>'<em>Told you so</em>.' He waggles his eyebrows, and his hands are still around Mitch as if he doesn't want to let go of him. Mitch doesn't really mind so he clutches at him while he tries to catch his breath and calm his excited heart. Staff members are skating around to gather the hats from the ice, rock music is blasting from the speakers and people are pounding against the glass. It's overwhelming in the best possible way and he tightens his grip around Dylan, thinks it's too soon when Dylan releases him from the embrace. </p><p>But he had to because there’s still one-and-a-half minutes of hockey to play and they are both keen on winning this game instead of heading to overtime. </p><p>They end up with a loss, a loss that stings and frustrates Mitch as much as every loss—maybe even more so after they all played like they were on fire during the last period. Especially after they skated their hearts out just to see the Russians score first in overtime despite all their efforts of not letting them, and after they all thought their furious comeback discouraged them. </p><p>The mood in the locker room is a strange mix of disappointment and elation, sadness and spite. Their comeback <em>was</em> amazing and Mitch's three goals <em>were</em> magic. This is not nothing, Coach tells them. They fought hard and strong as a team, but sometimes luck isn't with them. Then he nods at Dylan and Mitch. </p><p>"You better get used to the idea of playing on the same line, because I'm planning on keeping it like this for the next game." </p><p>__</p><p>"Fuck… Mitchy. I'm sorry that you have to play with that asshole again."</p><p>Chris’s voice is tinny through the speakers, but Mitch can hear the frustration, anger, and pity in it. So many emotions that he probably would have felt, too, four weeks ago if somebody told him he would be on Dylan's right-wing. </p><p>Not anymore though. </p><p>"I had a hattrick," he repeats as if that explains everything he still doesn't understand. He's sitting on the floor in the hallway, already in his pyjamas and the thick woollen socks that his grandma always knits for Christmas. The situation reminds him of the one two weeks ago, when he was sitting on the bathroom floor, except that Chris is only on the phone this time and there's a bag of skittles in his lap. </p><p>There was even pizza they had ordered from room service earlier, although it wasn't as good as the one from Slice of Fire (and it had mushrooms which makes him throw up even when he's not pregnant). </p><p>"<em>You</em> had a hattrick. It's not like he helped much with that."</p><p>"He did! It's… I know it's hard to get, but you should've seen the look he gave me before we hit the ice—and when we played together—" </p><p>"Like he knew where you'd be without looking. Yeah, Mitchy, you said that already. Still doesn't excuse that he acted like a complete asshole the days before. Did I say <em>days</em>? Oops, I meant <em>years</em>. He's been giving you shit for years." </p><p>"I did the same!" Mitch is starting to get frustrated because Chris doesn't understand, but also because he can't find the words to explain how he felt in those moments as Dylan looked at him. He tears up the package of Skittles to see if there are more red ones left, but he already ate them all. </p><p>"Yeah, but you're my baby brother. I'm biased here." </p><p>"Try not to be."</p><p>"I can't… especially not since everything you've told me so far doesn't show that he's changed. He treated you like shit since you met at the airport. No one forced him to act and say shit like that. I mean… did he even apologize?!" Chris huffs; he sounds even more annoyed and angry than before. Mitch suddenly feels a surge of affection and love. His brother is the best, and knowing that he will always be in his corner, will always try to protect him, it makes him feel warm, cared for and secure. </p><p>There's a reason why he told him first, and why Chris will always be the first person he asks for advice. </p><p> </p><p>Even when he's wrong, he thinks about Mitch first, and his hockey career later. </p><p>"He did."</p><p>"Words mean nothing if he doesn't follow through with actions. And as long he's not doing that… I'm gonna hate him." </p><p>Mitch rolls his eyes, but he laughs instinctively because Chris sounds like a petulant child. He chuckles absently while Chris lists more reasons to hate on Dylan but when he hears footsteps approaching from the elevator and sees Dylan rounding the corner, he completely tunes him out. </p><p>Just like him, Dylan is clad in pyjamas, but unlike him, he's barefoot, dressed only in a thin shirt and pants, and also wearing one of his toques. He looks tired, because when does Dylan Strome not look tired? He still looks good in Mitch's eyes, smiling hesitantly and hopefully, with a soft affection as he spots Mitch sitting on the floor in front of his room. </p><p>As he shakes the little plastic bag he's holding in his hand. </p><p>As he quickens his steps until he’s standing in front of Mitch, rocking back and forth; clearly giddy and excited. </p><p>He looks so different—so insecure and affectionate that Mitch wants nothing more than to pull him down or jump up so that he can be close to him. He quickly ends the call and hangs up. </p><p>"Why are you sitting here?" Dylan offers his hand, chuckling. </p><p>"Thought I would spare you the embarrassment of knocking and having to ask for me." For half a second Mitch contemplates not taking the offer, but then he allows Dylan to pull him onto his feet. </p><p>"What makes you think I'm here for you? Maybe I came to see Jesse?"</p><p>"Is that so? Wait, I can let you in." Mitch makes a show of getting out the keycard from his pocket until Dylan laughs and stops him. </p><p>"Fine, you won." He sighs but doesn't let go of Mitch's wrist. Instead, he starts to pull him with him. </p><p>"Where are we going?" </p><p>"Somewhere that isn't in front of your room in the middle of the hallway. Just because we're friends now doesn't mean I want to be seen with you." But he's laughing and shaking the plastic bag in his hand. "I brought skittles." </p><p>He did. Although it’s not a regular pack—it's a bulk bag of only reds. Mitch's throat clenches and his heart is doing funny things inside of his chest. Like a little hummingbird fluttering against his ribcage. Suddenly he feels like before the last period when Dylan looked at him before stepping onto the ice. </p><p>"You bought me red skittles?" </p><p>"They're your favourite." </p><p>"How did you know?"</p><p>They have rounded the corner where the hallway opens up to a sitting nook. A high window shows the dark yard behind the hotel. Without any resistance, Mitch allows Dylan to lead him to the little couch. There's a drinking fountain and a radiator that emanates waves of heat. He hadn't realized how cold he was until now. The dark green fabric of the cushion is worn out and the wooden armrest has various scratches. It's still cozy and Mitch pulls legs under him. </p><p>"I pay attention. And also, you're just the type who loves red skittles."</p><p>"And that is what type exactly?"</p><p>"Optimistic and romantic." </p><p>"Really?" But he can feel his cheeks getting hot and he's sure that it’s not because of the radiator. It's easier to watch Dylan fiddle with the knot of the plastic bag than to look at his face. "So which colour is for sarcastic pessimists? Let me guess, yellow?"</p><p>"Ha-ha," Dylan actually says and Mitch doesn't have to see it to sense that he's rolling his eyes. Then the bag is open and he nudges Mitch's shoulder. </p><p>"Thank you," Mitch mumbles as he grabs a small handful. Dylan is right; red skittles are his favourite and he is pretty much optimistic and romantic. But he still thinks that a bag of only red skittles looks a little bit sad. Lonely. "Is that why you always knew where to find me today? Because you paid attention? Because you're obsessed with stats?"</p><p>"Maybe… But not when it comes to you. Never when it came to you." </p><p>He says it so nonchalantly, so natural; as if it's a fact of nature. The sky is blue, snow is white and Dylan pays attention to Mitch because he wants to. Mitch has to lift his brows and turn to look at him. Has to see the little shrug as if this was obvious. </p><p>"You're hard not to pay attention to, Mitch Marner."</p><p>Distantly, the elevator dings and footsteps are heard on the carpet-covered hallway, and next to them the radiator clangs merrily and a drop of water falls into the basin of the drinking fountain. Mitch is very aware of all those little things, clear and sharp as a shadow at noon. But none of them matter because all he can do is stare at Dylan, hold his gaze, and take in all the details that make up his face: the distinctive line of his eyebrows—the left one always higher than the right, the dark brown colour of his eyes—so warm and tender now, and the arch of his thin upper lip and the mischievous little twitch of the corners of his mouth. </p><p>Reaching for him and pulling him in for a kiss is maybe the easiest thing Mitch has ever done and the reward is instant when Dylan gasps and opens his mouth so that Mitch can deepen the kiss. Winding the bag of Skittles out of his fingers and replacing them with his own hand is even easier. But finally sliding his leg over Dylan's thighs and climbing onto his lap so that they are pressed together and able to feel each other again… that's definitely the easiest decision ever. </p><p>They kiss for minutes, using lips, tongues and teeth, slowly and gently, without haste or urgency, without the fear of this being the last time they get to do this. Mitch can taste strawberry from the Skittles and mint from Dylan's gum. He feels hands on his back and brushes his fingertips over the hinge of Dylan's jaw. And when Mitch opens his eyes again, all he can see is Dylan’s face.</p><p>Mitch has never ever allowed himself to pay that much attention to the shape of Dylan's nose, the dip of his cupid's bow, the moles on his cheeks or the delicate fuzz on his chin. Nor the soft texture of his skin or the curve of his bottom lip. </p><p>He doesn't know how much time passes, but when they finally part for real, it's too soon and Mitch wants to stay forever where he is. </p><p>On this worn-out couch in this dingy hotel hallway in Halifax. Holding hands with the boy he always considered his sworn enemy and competitor. Lips tingling from their kiss and feeling warm, relaxed and safe. </p><p>"This is… nice." </p><p>Nice doesn't cut it at <em>all</em>, but Mitch is glad that he's apparently too overwhelmed to say what he's really thinking. </p><p>"Yeah, that's—that's one way to put it." Dylan smiles up at him before releasing Mitch's hand and cupping his face. His fingers are tender, the caress tickling a little, and sending shivers down Mitch's spine. He has to fight the urge to not melt and lean into the touch. But despite his efforts, Dylan can probably read him because the smile turns into a grin and then a knowing smirk. </p><p>"You're blushing," Dylan teases. </p><p>"So are you." </p><p>"You also look very sleepy." </p><p>"Well, have you looked at yo—" </p><p>"Don't even say it!" Dylan's hand over his mouths stops him from finishing the sentence. He sounds annoyed. "I know I always look tired." </p><p>"I like it." It slips out of his mouth before Mitch can stop himself, so he quickly slides from Dylan's lap and stands up, mirroring the gesture from before by reaching for Dylan's hand to pull him up. Anything to distract Dylan from his admission. </p><p>"Would have slept better if I had you to cuddle me last night." </p><p>Dylan whispers the words into his ear, breath hot and voice a little hoarse. He's towering over Mitch again, but somehow this feels right. Just like leaning against him and bowing his head, to entice Dylan to leave bruises on his neck. Mitch has never had a love bite but at this exact moment, it's all he wants. </p><p>Another proof that this evening was real when he wakes up tomorrow.</p><p>When Dylan decides that they're enemies again. </p><p>It's only when Dylan's grasp around his shoulder tightens that he realizes he said this aloud. </p><p>God, he's so stupid. Stupid and foolish and hopeless. </p><p>"Jesus, Mitchy…we're not—I've never been," he bites his lip. "Is that what you thought this was for me? Is that what this was for you?"</p><p><em>Yes</em>. </p><p><em>No</em>.</p><p>Mitch nods, then shakes his head. </p><p>"Well, then you're a fool… or I've been. But—not anymore, okay? We're better together." </p><p>__</p><p>Dylan doesn't take him to bed, doesn't cuddle with him until they fall asleep as they both wanted. They're still in a hotel and they still have roommates that aren’t each other. </p><p>But he leaves that mark on Mitch's neck. It’s right behind his ear and below his hairline so that it's covered. And he holds Mitch’s hand until Mitch slips back into the darkness of his room where Crouser and Jesse are lying on Jesse’s bed, still watching Indiana Jones 4 because they are heathens who don't understand that this movie is blasphemy and should have never been allowed to happen. </p><p>(Dylan agreed with him.) </p><p>Mitch knows what it's like to fall asleep in Dylan's arms and he's got a pretty good imagination. </p><p>Falling asleep curled around a pillow and with his phone in his hands doesn't compare to the real thing. Doesn't even come close. But it's enough to read Dylan's messages and remember the tickle of his lips against the shell of his ear, the reluctance when he had to let go of Mitch. To know that he's lying in a room similar to this, on an identical bed, and that he's probably clutching his phone like Mitch does and thinking about him. </p><p>
  <em>For the record, my favourite skittles are red ones, too.</em>
</p><p>__</p><p>Coach Krets indeed puts them on the same line for the next game and the one after that. The first one they lose against the US, but the second one against Sweden they win. </p><p>It still means that they're eliminated from the tournament. Something that should sting more than it actually does. But Mitch and Dylan have three more beautiful goals together to their names, and Mitch has Dylan's arms around his shoulders when they leave the locker room after their last game. The proof that their hockey has improved, the knowledge they created magic, and the assurance that things have changed between them. They are now getting chirped because of their sudden friendship and closeness when before they got mocked for their animosity. </p><p>Now all they get is fond eye rolls when they excuse themselves on the night before they fly back home to curl up on the worn-out couch in the nook of the hallway where Mitch tucks his feet under Dylan's thigh and Dylan pulls out a bag of Skittles he bought from Bulk Barn. </p><p>It's mostly reds, but also some yellows, and Mitch wants to kiss him. </p><p>And he realizes then <em>that</em> he can. That Dylan probably even wants him to. </p><p>
  <em>It's different. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>It's the same. </em>
</p><p>Different because the insecurity of exposing himself is gone, of doing something he wouldn't know how it'll be received. And the same because the thrill of touching Dylan's lips is still there; tingling like electricity when they connect, warming his whole body when Dylan pulls him in until Mitch is straddling him. </p><p>It’s the same because it's still mind-blowing, arousing, and comforting. Because it makes him feel so very alive, and because it makes him forget about everything else. </p><p>__</p><p>Going back to Toronto is the punch of reality he didn't need. But going back to London is way worse. It's like a cold knife into his stomach. </p><p>Mitch's memories are filled with pictures and sounds and touches of Dylan; his body is marked up with invisible traces that Dylan left upon him. Kisses upon his cheeks, fingers on his bare neck, hands embracing him. </p><p>He won't get this anymore for a long time, not until the Knights play the Otters in a couple of weeks. And he misses it even though the two weeks since Christmas should have been way too short to get used to it. But he did and the only thing left of Dylan are the messages on his phone and the baby that's growing inside of him. </p><p>Later that night he lies on his bed, freshly showered and snuggled into the hoodie that he persuaded Dylan to give to him. Bigger and warmer than all of his own, and smelling of Dylan. His phone is on his stomach and he's absently following the movie he put on. But actually, he's waiting for a text; Dylan should be in Erie now, should have read his text. </p><p>It's after midnight. It must have been hours since he arrived, and with every passing minute, Mitch got more nervous, more restless and cold. </p><p>Maybe Dylan was just words and no action like his brother said. Maybe the last week was only one-sided or because they played beautiful hockey together, and their new friendship was just the result of all the emotions and the excitement? Maybe all his promises to help and support him were lies. </p><p>Mitch is exhausted, more than he normally would have been after practice; he feels bone-deep tired, and yet he's so far away from sleep. It will be another restless night and he's just about to roll onto his side and pick another movie when his phone vibrates with an incoming message. </p><p>If Mitch thought he had been nervous when he sent the text, or while he was waiting for a reply… it's nothing against how he's feeling right now. His heart is racing so fast that it's almost painful. His stomach is revolting and just like the moment he told Dylan about the baby he's afraid he has to throw up before he can even read the text.</p><p>
  <em>'I'm outside'</em>
</p><p>For a second Mitch thinks Dylan's joking but then he gets another message.</p><p>
  <em>'Open the door, plz.'</em>
</p><p>Dylan is really here. He came. For Mitch. </p><p>With trembling legs, he stands up and fumbles his way downstairs in the darkness to not wake up his billet parents. He's only been living here for a few months but he's already familiar with the layout, knows which stairs are squeaky and that there's an old sideboard with really nasty corners that leave painful bruises on hip bones. </p><p>It's freezing outside when he opens the door, but he's shaking for a whole different reason. </p><p>Dylan is leaning against his car; bundled in his puffy jacket and a huge scarf that looks self-knitted, grandma-style. For half a second, Mitch thinks he's smoking but it's just his breath; visible like a passing cloud. </p><p>When he spots Mitch, he straightens and approaches him. Looking almost as hesitant and insecure as Mitch feels, and that is so wrong, Mitch doesn't even know where to start. Without thinking, he slips out of the house and hurries down the porch steps. </p><p>The snow is cold under his socked-feet, and the air is biting at his cheeks, but Dylan is spreading his arms wide and Mitch falls into his embrace like rain in spring. </p><p>"Mitch…" </p><p>He's glad that Dylan is taller than him, that he's prepared to catch his weight because suddenly Mitch's legs can't seem to support him anymore, and all he can do is cling onto Dylan's shoulders and hide his face against Dylan's chest to try to calm himself down.</p><p>"Mitch?" </p><p>Dylan's fingers slide through his hair before he cups the back of Mitch's head while his lips ghost over Mitch's hairline, plush and warm. He seemed amused at first, but now he sounds confused, almost concerned. </p><p>"Babe? You're scaring me. Is everything… are you okay?"</p><p>Mitch tries to answer, yet all he manages is a hiccup as he presses his body closer and buries his face deeper in the folds of Dylan's scarf until his nose finds warm skin and the familiar scent. (The sweater he has stolen could never provide that much comfort.) He doesn't mean to, doesn't even realize it, but when Dylan finally tilts his head back and brushes his thumbs over the delicate skin under Mitch's eyes, they smear wetness over his cheeks and Mitch notices that he's crying. </p><p>"I'm—I'll be okay. Now…" He digs his hands deeper into the thick fabric of Dylan's jacket. As if he's afraid that Dylan could evaporate into thin air, could be a figment of his imagination. "I can't believe that you came." </p><p>"I had to… Babe, you telling me you're keeping the baby? I <em>had</em> to see you."</p><p>"You have a game tomorrow."</p><p>"I don't care. This is—this is so much more important." Dylan still caresses his face, still looks at him with such incredible tenderness… as if Mitch is soft and vulnerable like a baby bird, as if Mitch is all he ever wanted to see. "Let’s go inside, babe, you're trembling. I don't want you to catch a cold." </p><p>"Why did you come?" </p><p>"Inside, I'll tell you inside. Now shoo." But he takes another couple of breaths before he releases Mitch and instead reaches for his hand; not letting go until he has to take off his shoes in the hallway. </p><p>They manage to sneak into Mitch's room without waking up his billet parents, and thankfully their bedroom isn't next to his so that they can talk quietly.</p><p>"Why did you come?" Mitch repeats after he’s pulled off his wet socks. He rummages around in his closet for spare clothes for Dylan. </p><p>"You're wearing my sweater." Dylan's voice sounds surprised and a little bit pleased when he drapes himself over Mitch's back. His lips are cool on Mitch's neck when he places a kiss there. </p><p>"It's comfy… and it smells like you." </p><p>"You can have the real thing now." </p><p>"Yeah…" </p><p>Mitch watches quietly as Dylan changes. It's so easy, so familiar, as if this isn't the first time they're doing this. He’s seen Dylan naked in the locker room a dozen times after games and practices, but it's so different now that they’re both alone—now that they’re both in the same room where they’ve kissed, had sex, and made a baby together. The thought is so incredible, the memory so present that Mitch instinctively places his hand on his stomach. It makes Dylan's eyes go dark, noticeable even in the soft light from his nightstand, and it makes him stop in the middle of pulling up the sweatpants for a moment before he hurries to finish so that he can come over and sit next to Mitch. </p><p>"Can I…?" Dylan asks.</p><p>"Only if you answer my question first." </p><p>Dylan actually frowns and the line between his brows deepens. Annoyance is a good look on him and Mitch chuckles, even more, when Dylan huffs impatiently.</p><p>"I told you. I needed to see you. Talk to you, because… I can't do <em>this </em>over the phone."</p><p>"This?" </p><p>"This." And with that Dylan leans in and kisses him. It's so different from their kisses before, gentle soft nibs, like feathers brushing over Mitch's lips, like he looked at Mitch before on the driveway. There is nothing like the urgency and the teasing their other kisses had contained, but still, Mitch can feel it everywhere in his body. Feels as if Dylan is reaching into his chest and touching his heart. </p><p>"And this," he continues after they have parted before he takes Mitch's hand into both of his own, brushes his lips over the back of it and every single knuckle, and for a moment, Mitch stops breathing, because he thinks Dylan is doing something crazy—like proposing to him. But then he just searches for Mitch's eyes while he continues holding his hand. </p><p>"I wanna be involved… I mean, I told you it's all up to you, but—I really want to help you with whatever you want me to. And I wanna be with you." </p><p>Mitch swallows. </p><p>"I would have wanted that even without the baby," Dylan adds before Mitch can ask it. It's been on the tip of his tongue. </p><p>"Raspberry." He mumbles instead. </p><p>"Raspberry. Although I really hope you're going for a different name once they're born." He smiles so wide that Mitch couldn't have looked away if he even wanted. </p><p>(Not that he does.)</p><p>"Two weeks ago I thought you hated me." </p><p>"I've never—Mitch, babe, I've never hated you. I told you before… I was just. Jealous I guess. In the beginning, I mean. Your hockey was so, so good. So brilliant. And you were always happy, always smiling like everything was easy for you while I had to work so hard, always had to force the puck to go the way I wanted, whereas you…" He shrugs. "But I never hated you. I… I wanted to be you."</p><p>Mitch has only listened until then, but now he snorts. Everything Dylan just said was so… unreal? It seems so unbelievable even though he looked and sounded so honest, so vulnerable. He starts to pull his hands out of Dylan's grasp but Dylan only tightens it. </p><p>"No, please—" Thumbs brushing over the back of Mitch's hand, trying to calm him down, to appease him. "I was stupid! I realized that when I overheard your father talking to you after a game. It was in spring last year I think, the last game we played each other before the draft. I… I couldn't believe it, and since then…"</p><p>"You pitied me." </p><p>Suddenly Dylan's expression changes from open and vulnerable and pleading to stormy, furious almost.</p><p>"No! I didn't! Never! I just… realized that you're human, that you're sweet and soft and that you're paying a high price for your hockey and that you're working as hard as I do. And it made me angry because I should be the only one giving you shit." He laughs, and Mitch can’t help it, he laughs, too. </p><p>He believes Dylan. Believes him because he’s felt exactly the same, and when Dylan starts to speak again, he puts his hand over Dylan's mouth and shakes his head. </p><p>It's not important anymore. </p><p>"I wanna be with you, too, I think." </p><p>That's maybe the only important thing. </p><p>"You think?" Dylan asks; half-smiling, half-serious. And so hopeful that Mitch feels his lips twitch. Dylan looks too cute like this, with his hair tousled from the toque he took off before, with his immaculate eyebrows askew. His face is so expressive… Mitch can't believe he ever thought he was robotic and emotionless. </p><p>It was the reason he couldn't help mocking him, couldn't keep his mouth shut. All he wanted was to see him angry, annoyed… anything. It was the reason he kissed him in the first place.</p><p>If only he knew it would have been so much easier like this. </p><p>He winds his hand out of Dylan's grip and guides it to his stomach, never taking his gaze from Dylan's face. The soft <em>O</em> of his mouth, the wide and wondrous eyes… as if he can't believe it. The little gasp when he spreads it carefully. </p><p>"It doesn't hurt me." </p><p>"But—"</p><p>"Really. Touch me." </p><p>Mitch's stomach is still very much flat when he's wearing pads and wide sweaters, but he knows there's the smallest little bump showing already. He noticed it three days ago for the first time. Almost as if he just ate too much. He thought that was the case, but it was still there the next morning, and it felt different. Like a part of him, and also not. Ever since then, he’s checked himself in the mirror a couple of times, curious and amazed. </p><p>Ever since then, he knew what he would do. No matter what anyone said. </p><p>"It's… wow. That's really your raspberry?" </p><p>Mitch smiles. He knows the feeling of disbelief that he can see on Dylan's face—the feeling of exhilaration, of magic. It's beautiful to see. Because this is Dylan… the person he’s wanted to look at him like this, to touch him like this, ever since he kissed him and they spent a night on this very bed. Dylan is the person he fell in love with when he brushed the hair out of Mitch's face and kissed him sweetly and refused to let go of him after they both came. </p><p>Mitch shakes his head. </p><p>"<em>Our </em>raspberry." </p><p>Mitch had known what he would do three nights ago… had probably already known right from the beginning. He’d known it was the right decision the moment he whispered it to his own reflection in the mirror of a tiny airplane washroom on the flight back from Halifax. Had known it was worth it when he cried soundlessly in his seat afterward, wrapped up in Dylan's sweater and without him noticing it. He didn't even know if they were sad tears or happy ones. But watching Dylan melt in front of him now, the hand on Mitch's stomach trembling, and tears of relief and happiness gathering in the corners of his eyes… he's never been more sure about anything in his life. </p><p>It sounds crazy. </p><p>But their whole story so far has been crazy. </p><p>They are only sixteen and they only became friends two weeks ago. </p><p>They don't know anything about babies and life. </p><p>But they managed to fall in love while they thought they hated each other and they played the best hockey in their life while they were still enemies. </p><p>They will figure it out. And everything else doesn't matter. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading!<br/>I wish you all a good start to the New Year, stay safe and optimistic that it will be better.<br/>Lots of love ♥</p></blockquote></div></div>
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